


there's nothing but light when i see you

by misandrywitch



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Morning Sex, Sleepy Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2014-06-10
Packaged: 2018-02-04 04:56:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1766287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misandrywitch/pseuds/misandrywitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He is consumed by it, by this ridiculous boy and his breath mixing up with Mickey’s breath and their legs tangled together and Ian’s fingers still in his hair. The world could be twisting on its axis and he wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t care. Ian, he thinks, and things are a little more okay. Ian, Ian Ian. (Mickey, Ian and sleepy morning blowjobs)</p>
            </blockquote>





	there's nothing but light when i see you

**Author's Note:**

> title comes from 'the anatomy of being' by shinji moon
> 
> shittybknights.tumblr.com

Mickey isn’t used to sleeping at the Gallagher’s house yet.

This is his first thought when he wakes up to the sound of a door slamming and Fiona shouting downstairs. He’s given up any pretense of sleeping on the floor in Ian’s bedroom ever since he and Ian relocated from his own house to here, and he wakes to find himself squished between Ian and the wall with morning sunlight dancing in patterns across the comforter on Ian’s shoulders. Ian’s back is turned to him and he’s hunched slightly in on himself. As hunched as he can get on his tiny bed, anyway.

Another door slams downstairs and Fiona, indistinctly, shouts, “We’re leaving!” Mickey lets out a sigh of relief. His own house has always been noisy and crowded, especially with the addition of Svetlana and company, but it doesn’t rival Ian’s. People are crammed into the Gallagher household in layers. You can almost never get away from them.

The house is miraculously quiet so Mickey nudges Ian in the lower back with his knee to get him to budge over, sliding his arm over Ian’s as an afterthought when it’s free from being trapped under Ian’s side. The house feels chilly so Mickey yanks the covers back up over their shoulders. Ian’s fingers are warm under Mickey’s.

“What time is it,” he murmurs, his voice soft and fuzzy with sleep.

“Eight or something, your family just left,” Mickey says into Ian’s shoulder.

“Mm,” Ian hasn’t opened his eyes. He presses his shoulder more firmly against Mickey’s so his back is up against Mickey’s belly. They don’t fit perfectly and Ian’s shoulder is closer to being in Mickey’s mouth. It’s something Mickey’s learning to accept about being short, along with the fact that he’s always more likely to get kicked out of bed by Ian’s gangly, flaily limbs in the middle of the night. He’s getting used to it. It’s what you do, Mickey supposes, when you let somebody else into your life. You carve out space for them in your day, you budge up so they fit into your bed, you shift your habits a little so theirs fit too. You adjust.

Mickey disentangles his fingers from Ian’s and brushes them along the freckles on his shoulders, faded from the winter but still there. They’ll get darker when it gets warmer; Mickey’s known Ian long enough to know that. They’re only really visible up close. Mickey likes that, because it means he can only see them when they’re lying like this with Ian’s shoulder practically in his mouth.

“Your hands are cold,” Ian’s face is buried partly in his pillow.

“Cause some inconsiderate asshole jacked all the blankets last night,” Mickey retorts without any real fire.

“Then put them under the covers, idiot,” Ian grabs at Mickey’s hand and slides both of them under the blankets so Mickey’s arm is curled around Ian’s belly. Mickey’s whole body tenses for a moment, an involuntary reaction that defies logic, defies the fact that the house is empty and the doors locked and anyway they’re spooning in a single bed without shirts on which is already uncompromising so his fingers on Ian’s stomach won’t make it worse. It isn’t like they haven’t been here before. But the casual intimacy of Ian sliding Mickey’s fingers across his stomach for a moment makes Mickey is so scared he feels like it stops his heart. He wants to jerk his hand away. He wants to get up out of bed and run, doesn’t matter where or how far. He has to go, he has to go, slide his feet into his shoes and go before there’s blood on Ian’s face again, blood he’ll put there either directly or indirectly, he has to—

Ian shifts next to him, turns his head a little so he’s looking at Mickey through his lashes. His eyes are very green and his fair, fair lashes are catching the sunlight. “Mickey,” he says. Mickey breathes out. Ian has lines on his cheek from the pillowcase and he’s looking at Mickey like the sun shines out of Mickey’s ass. It scares him, but in a different way. It doesn’t make him want to run. It makes him uncomfortably self-aware, and he knows he doesn’t deserve it and he can’t believe this ridiculous beautiful boy looks at him like he’s looking at him right now, but he does.

“What, sleepyface?” Mickey asks. He makes his fingers move because they are safe even if he doesn’t want to believe it, moves his thumb along the ridge of Ian’s right hipbone then up so it follows the line of Ian’s ribs, increasing in definition as Ian breathes in. Ian sighs, his eyes closing again, and shifts a little so he can slide his leg in between Mickey’s. Mickey kisses him, because he can, soft and open-mouthed, slides his hand so it’s flat against Ian’s stomach and he can drag his fingers along the line of so-red-it’s-almost-blonde hair that runs from his belly button to the waistband of his boxers. Ian sighs into Mickey’s mouth.

“You have morning breath,” Mickey says. He slides his fingers a little lower.

“You don’t smell like a fucking flower either,” Ian breathes. His eyes are open again and filled with sleep and soft heat. His breathing is faster too. “You sleep with your mouth open, you know. You snore.”

“Do you want me to get up and brush my teeth?” Mickey grins and Ian somehow manages to make a face at him despite the fact that Mickey is sliding his hand down the length of Ian’s cock.

“No, asshole,” Ian’s voice is breathy but still rough from sleep. Mickey likes that he knows what Ian’s voice sounds like when he’s just woken up, just like he knows how Ian likes his coffee and that he doesn’t really like toast crust and that his favorite Harry Potter book is the third one and that his smile is lopsided when he’s embarrassed or flustered. There are probably things about Mickey that Ian knows by heart now, that Mickey just takes for granted. That he eats his pancakes with too much syrup. That he uses stupid nicknames. The way he sounds when he comes. “I don’t want you to brush your fucking teeth. I want you to—“ he stops to pant against Mickey’s mouth for a second and when he talks again his voice is rough enough that it travels right down Mickey’s spine to his cock, “I want you to suck my dick.”

“I guess I did say I would whenever you want,” Mickey says. He kisses Ian again.

“Don’t act like it’s a fucking chore,” Ian says. “You also said you fucking love it.”

Mickey can’t argue with that, so he just shoves the comforter off them, rolls so he’s on his knees and slides Ian’s boxers down. He wraps his hand around the base of Ian’s cock, tongues the tip, and then takes Ian into his mouth really slowly. Ian groans breathily, sleepily, and his left hand fingers dig into Mickey’s shoulder, his other hand winding itself into Mickey’s hair. Mickey glances up at him; his head is thrown back and the underside of his neck and his throat exposed. He looks vulnerable and red-gold in the morning sunlight.

Mickey takes his time. That’s something to revel in, that they can fuck in bed and not underneath the dugout stairs so gravel winds up ground into Mickey’s jeans, or in the back of the Kash and Grab worried someone will walk in on them. Nobody will, because nobody is home. That they can fuck for more than the sake of fucking but because Mickey wants to get Ian off. That there isn’t anything else more important in this moment than the way Ian tastes and how his breath catches and how Mickey wants him to say his name. Mickey takes his time.

He runs his tongue up the underside of Ian’s cock, curls it around the tip. Ian’s fingers dig into his hair and his knees, on either side of Mickey’s ribcage, jerk. They’d be buckling if he was standing up.

“Fuck,” he gasps, his voice somehow still sleepy and warm and his whole body pliable under Mickey’s fingers. He strokes Ian’s cock with his hand and kisses his hip, sharply defined under the skin because Ian is arching his back. “Mickey,” Ian says.”Mickey, Mickey, Mickey—“ He’s grinding against Mickey’s mouth and saying his name, saying it like it’s a prayer and he’s a dying man and there are no other words. There’s a strange burning feeling in Mickey’s chest. He slides one hand up Ian’s chest and can feel his heart hammering under his ribs and through muscle and bone. He pulls away a little, careful to scrape his teeth gently along the base of Ian’s cock in a way he found out he likes purely on accident, on a day that feels like years ago.

“Christ—“ Ian gasps, then his hand slides down to cup the base of Mickey’s skull and he says, “c’mere, let me—“

Mickey somehow knows what he means and he moves back up the bed so his head is next to Ian’s on the pillow, tugging down his boxers the rest of the way. Ian kisses him, at the same time wrapping his hand around Mickey’s cock. Mickey has barely touched himself and he’s rock hard. He arches against Ian’s hand as it moves faster, matching Ian’s rhythm with his own until Ian is gasping his name again into his mouth. He is consumed by it, by this ridiculous boy and his breath mixing up with Mickey’s breath and their legs tangled together and Ian’s fingers still in his hair. The world could be twisting on its axis and he wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t care. Ian, he thinks, and things are a little more okay. Ian, Ian Ian.

When Ian comes he moans Mickey’s name, his mouth pressed hot against Mickey’s jaw, and that pushes Mickey over the edge. Ian’s head falls back onto the pillow, his breathing ragged, and he smiles slowly. Mickey kisses him one more time, for good measure.

“Morning,” Ian says. “That’s what I was gonna say earlier.”

“Right,” Mickey snorts. “No ulterior motive at all. I see right through you, Gallagher.”

“Mmhm,” Ian props himself up on his elbow. “Mickey—“

“What?” Mickey says. “Gonna ask you to suck my dick next time, maybe you’ll shut up for five minutes.” Ian leans his head back and laughs at that, his face a little flushed and lit by the sun and he’s so unbearably beautiful that Mickey has to look away, clear his throat. He ruins it when he shoves Mickey with his elbow and then jabs him in the stomach right where he knows it’ll tickle.

“Nevermind,” he says. “You want breakfast? And coffee?”

“What kind of dumbass question is that?” Mickey says. “Of course I do.”

“Get some pants on then, I’ll go take my meds then make French toast or something,” Ian starts to stand up, searching around his feet for his boxers, his shoulders bare and pale and strong and sunlit. The burning feeling inside Mickey’s chest is back. He reaches out, grabs Ian by the elbow before he turns to go out the door and pulls him back. Mickey kisses him, his thumb on Ian’s chin and his hand on Ian’s elbow, and there is nothing but light.


End file.
